Chapter Seven

When Amara arrived at Allegro for her five o’clock practice with Ryan, she found Jasper in his office. He cradled the phone between his ear and his shoulder and scribbled on a sheet of paper in purple ink.

“And when do we find out the schedule?” he asked into the receiver, motioning Amara to sit in a battered folding chair in the corner. “Uh-huh. Can’t we find out any earlier? Really? It would help all the contestants you know.” He listened for another minute and then rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath as he disconnected the call.

“Problems with the contest?” she asked.

“Not really problems. I just have to wonder if someone with a grudge against Allegro is handling the scheduling. Normally we would know the dance order by this time. But no,” he said, drawing out the last word. “They’re not releasing that information yet. I did find out who the other dancers are though.” Jasper grinned at her like the Cheshire cat and waggled his eyebrows.

Amara leaned forward. Knowing the competition was half the battle. “Spill the beans. Who?” she asked.

“Have patience, sweets. I’m getting to that part. In addition to the three of us from Allegro, there are three other women. One is a real estate agent from Ft. Myers, one is a doctor from Naples and the third is an attorney from Tampa. There’s also a retired brigadier general from Tampa who’s dancing with Margot Hutchinson. And surprise, surprise, Mimosa Key has a fourth entry in the competition.”

“Please tell me it’s not Gabe Rossi. If the competition judges are women he’ll get votes just because he’s Gabe.”

Jasper nodded and chuckled. “Don’t you know it. He broke a lot of hearts when he married that woman and settled down. I heard through the island grapevine that they did ask him to compete and his answer was a great big effing no.”

Amara couldn’t contain her burst of laughter. “I’ve heard that the man doesn’t mince words. But back to the subject of the fourth entry from Mimosa Key, who is it? We only have three instructors. How….”

Amara’s voice trailed off as the obvious dawned on her. “Tiffany?” Amara asked, gesturing toward the wall. Tiffany Jones rented the space next to Allegro and also taught ballroom dancing. Jasper had been concerned about another dance studio being in the same building and competing for the same students, but he’d really had nothing to worry about. They catered to two different kinds of clientele. Allegro tended to draw the more serious competitive dancers.

Tiffany’s studio, on the other hand, attracted mainly recreational dancers – young couples wanting to learn the foxtrot for their wedding reception or seniors wanting to learn line dances in preparation for an anniversary cruise. Allegro did get the occasional recreational students, and while Jasper detested those classes, he had taught line dancing several weeks before. When Amara had questioned him about it, he had reminded her he was in no position to judge, and that electric slide dollars kept the studio lights on just like foxtrot ones.

“Uh-huh. A contestant from Palm Beach pulled a hamstring and had to drop out a week ago. So our next door neighbor volunteered to take the spot and she’s dancing with Antonio Alvarez.”

“The guy who owns the fishing charter service at the marina?” Amara interrupted.

“Yeah, him. I’m not worried though because I saw him dancing to the jukebox at South of the Border one night a few weeks ago and OMG!” he exclaimed, his eyes widening in amusement. “The man seriously has two left feet and positively no sense of rhythm. He does, however, have access to an airplane pulling a banner with his name on it. I guess he’s making up for lost time.”

“That’s not good for Ryan, but the two left feet part is.”

“That plane thing is not good for any of us. But I wonder,” Jasper said. He pursed his lips and Amara could almost see the wheels turning inside his head. “Maybe he was deliberately making himself look bad to throw me off. He could have been doing that, you know. Some dancers will deliberately downplay their skills and then in the competition, whammo! They dance like Maksim Chmerkovskiy. You should know that from your competitive days.”

“I don’t think he’ll be a ballroom whiz like Maksim Chmerkovskiy, but never underestimate your opponent, I always say.”

“Speaking of a whiz, how’s your student doing?”

“He’s holding his own so far. I was afraid he might not take this seriously, but he hasn’t missed a single rehearsal and he always comes prepared.”

Jasper lifted one eyebrow. “I hear a but in there. He hasn’t done anything inappropriate, has he?”

Amara contemplated how much more to say. She wasn’t sure if her gut feeling was spot on or way off the mark. Maybe Jasper could help her figure it out.

"No, nothing like that.”

“Well, I wonder why not. You’re an attractive, single woman.”

She shot him an exasperated look, then shrugged. “Apparently I’m not his type.”

“Honey, if you’re not his type, heaven help him.”

Irritation washed over her. “Can we not discuss my social life and get back to dancing?”

“If we must,” Jasper pouted. “Though your social life is way more fun.” He winked at her and grinned. “We need to find you a man.”

Amara shook her head. “Back to dancing. He shows up physically, but I’m not sure he shows up mentally. You know as well as I do how important the mental part of competition is. And that’s what surprises me because of his background as a professional athlete. He should have the killer instinct in him. The desire to win. But I haven’t seen that in him yet.”

“Is it a matter of not showing up mentally or a matter of being so far out of his element that he doesn’t know how to show up mentally?” Jasper asked. “Do you get what I mean?”

Amara nodded. “I do. But how do I make ballroom dancing his element?”

Jasper drummed his turquoise nails on the desk. “Show him videos of the top dancers?”

“I’ve done that. I’ve sent him down the YouTube rabbit hole more than once.”

“Take him to a Latin dance competition?” Jasper offered.

“That might scare him. Those dancers are way above his skill level and we won’t face anything like that at Dancing on the Sand. I don’t want to discourage him.”

Jasper fell quiet for several minutes, and then he snapped his fingers. “I have the perfect solution. Take him to the milonga, the tango dance club in Fort Myers. It’s only about an hour away. He’ll get to see all levels of dancers and all ages. And you can get him on the dance floor to practice in that environment. Get him used to dancing around someone besides you.”

Amara considered the suggestion, and the more she thought about it, the more she liked it.

“I’ll mention it to him at practice today. Maybe he’s free on Saturday and we can go then. We only have two weeks until the competition, so I need to light a fire under him as soon as possible.”

“If the tango club doesn’t get him in a tango state of mind, nothing will. Meanwhile, do you have the new choreo down for your routine?”

“Got it. And thanks for the suggestions. That’s what we needed. I only hope he can learn it quickly.”

***

“Sorry,” Ryan said for the umpteenth time in thirty minutes. “I’ll get the hang of it. I know I will.”

Amara hoped so because if they had to scrap this section, she would have to re-work the choreography again and that would set them back even further. From behind her she heard footsteps and turned to see Jasper.

Tapping Ryan on the shoulder, Jasper said, “Let me dance with Amara and see if I can help you understand the step.” Ryan stepped aside as Jasper grasped Amara’s hand and moved into position. He led her through the basic tango step first and then the corté.

“See how I step back into a sitting position and she leans into her knee? The back is straight and you support your partner,” Jasper explained. “Then back to the basic position and boom, you’ve just added some real pizazz to your routine.”

Ryan released an audible sigh. “How do you make it look so easy?”

“You made pitching a fastball look easy,” Jasper countered. “How did you do that?”

“Practice,” Ryan answered. A sheepish look crossed his face. “Point made.”

“And I’m going to let you kids practice now. I have a conference call with Libby Monroe and her husband to talk about costuming.” He waggled his fingers at them and long strides carried him to his office. “The other thing to remember is what Pacino said,” he called over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

“What did Pacino say?” Ryan asked, confused about how the actor had anything to do with him.

“Something like tangoing on if you get all tangled up,” she answered.

“I see,” he replied.

Only Amara could tell he didn’t understand at all.

Thirty minutes later Amara suggested a break, and they headed to the small kitchen in the back of the studio. She pulled two bottles of chilled water from the small fridge and handed one to Ryan.

“You just about have it,” she said between sips. “I want to add some additional arm and head movements. And I have an idea, or rather Jasper did, for something that might really help you understand the dance a little better.”

“Oh?” He tipped back his head and Amara watched his throat work as he gulped the cool water.

“There’s a club in Fort Myers that has a tango party every Saturday night. It’s open to everyone. If you’re free Saturday night we could go and you’d get to see some great dancing and we could get out on the floor ourselves. If you’re free, that is,” she repeated.

“Uh… I’m not sure I’m ready to dance for a bunch of strangers.”

“You won’t be dancing for them. You’ll be dancing with them.” She started to remind him that in two weeks he would be dancing for a bunch of strangers, but decided not to risk ratcheting up his stress level. “No one is going to pay you any attention there. It’ll be good practice. You’ll have fun. Trust me.”

He shot her a skeptical look. “The last time someone said that to me, I lived to regret it.”

Amara paused, waiting for an explanation that never came. “So are you okay with Saturday night?” And then she waited for the objection that, likewise, never came.

“I’m okay with Saturday night. I can drive if you’d like.”

She nodded, suddenly concerned that he had agreed far too readily. That he appeared a little too eager to take her to the dance club. Surely he didn’t think it was a date. If he did, and if he tried to put any moves on her, she would shut him down immediately.

This was business and only business. Five thousand dollars was at stake and she had no intention of letting any man get in the way of her pursuit of that prize money.

“Ready to get back to practice?” she asked, eager to introduce the rest of the new choreography.

“Let me show you what I want to add,” she said leading him to a table at the side of the room. She picked up an iPad and swiped the screen to life before opening a video she had downloaded earlier. “Watch when they are side by side and how they each throw their outside arm down and back and do a quick glance at each other. Little moves like that add to the routine and trust me. Audiences love that sort of thing. Let’s try it.”

They returned to the dance floor and Amara walked him through the steps, indicating the point where she wanted the new move added. After several tries, she cued the music to the proper spot and counted off.

“Five, six, seven, eight, to the side, arm down and back, glance left, separate, move behind me. Good. Now again, and really throw that arm back like you’re angry. Five, six, seven, eight, to the side, arm down—”

Ryan pulled away and grimaced. His left hand reached to the opposite shoulder and he rubbed the joint as he held his right arm close to his body.

As she looked on, Amara remembered the shoulder injury. He hadn’t complained about anything thus far, and she had presumed dancing didn’t bother the shoulder. Apparently she was wrong. “Are you okay?”

He shook his head. He massaged the shoulder for a few more minutes before he spoke. “Remember that regret I mentioned? This is it, and it’s not going to let me make that move without being in pain and fu—uh mucking up the dance.”

“Do you need anything for it? We have ice, sports rub, lots of stuff.”

He shook his head again. “It’ll be okay. But can we rest for a minute or two?”

“Oh, absolutely. We can go into the instructor’s lounge. It’s more comfortable.” She led him to a room outfitted with an overstuffed sofa and two reclining chairs. The furniture was mismatched but comfortable.

Ryan eased into the recliner closest to the door and leaned back, still cupping his shoulder and massaging it.

“What happened?” she asked after a few minutes of silence. She had seen dance careers ended with an injury and counted herself lucky that she had avoided that fate. “If you don’t mind talking about it, that is.”

“Knee boarding accident,” he began. “The season was nearly over and we were considered a shoo-in for the play-offs. A buddy invited me and a date to the lake and that was fine. But getting on that board wasn’t.” He closed his eyes as if re-living the day.

“I did okay at first, but then he sped the boat up and I drifted across the wake and flipped. It knocked the breath out of me and I knew right away I’d landed on my right shoulder. I doctored myself up that night with ibuprofen and menthol rub. I had a couple days off since I’d pitched in the last game.”

“You didn’t go to the ER?”

“And risk the coach, or worse yet, the press finding out?” He shook his head. “I’d pulled it before so I just did what the trainers did then.”

“But it didn’t work?”

His lips thinned into a grim line and he exhaled loudly. “Two days later we were in California. The setup man let the game get away from him in the eighth. We were headed into the bottom of the ninth with the score tied. I begged the coach to let me pitch. I told him I could retire three batters and take the game to extra innings. God, I was so damned cocky.”

He paused again and took a sip of water. She fought the urge to ask more questions, and she let him dictate what he told her and when.

“I knew my shoulder was off during the warm-up, but I told myself I could compensate. I signaled the catcher I was ready and then fired two perfect strikes across the plate. Next pitch my shoulder gave and the ball sailed straight across the plate doing ninety-five. Dave Stringer connected with it and sent it over the left field fence. Game over.”

And your career, too, she thought. She wouldn’t insult him by verbalizing it.

“I had one job. And I blew it.” He took another long draw on the bottle of water.

“They couldn’t operate?”

“Oh, they operated. And I was in PT for months. Coming back from a SLAP tear is iffy, and maybe if I’d gone for treatment after the accident I could have. So I was released from my contract and I went back home and worked for my dad for a while, then coached for another farm team before the Bucks offered me a job. And here I am.” He slapped the arms of the recliner with both hands. “Ready to get back to it?”

“Sure. But we can scrap that move. I don’t want to hurt your shoulder further.”

“I can do it, just without the exaggerated backward movement.”

They returned to the dance floor and ran through the steps until Amara was sure Ryan knew them.

“Let’s try the corté again,” she suggested. “Remember what Jasper showed you.” They took their positions and Amara talked him through the lead-in.

Ryan stepped back, she leaned in and in three beats she was falling into his arms as he stumbled and pulled her with him.

His arms bracketed her shoulders and before she could move away, he’d closed the gap between them and gently touched his lips to hers. He slid one hand to her nape and deepened the kiss, pressing his body to hers. Her eyes shuttered closed and a ribbon of heat coiled in her belly.

When he murmured her name in a husky tone, Amara snapped out of the daze his kiss had lured her into. She flattened her hands against his chest and pushed away, aware of the loss of warmth when their lips parted. She put her hand to her lips and rubbed where his five o’clock shadow had scratched.

“I think you need a break now,” she said, her voice quivering. “We’ve over-practiced and you’re tired. See you Friday?”

He reached to rub her cheek. His touch felt like a hot poker against her skin, and she flinched.

“Lipstick smudge,” he explained, then moved away.

Amara stood motionless as he toed off his shoes and socks, gathered his belongings and walked barefooted to the door. He grasped the knob and paused before turning back to her.

“And yeah. Friday.”

She remained glued to the spot for several minutes after he left until she began to feel weak and her heart raced. She castigated herself for forgetting to have a snack before practice and hurried to her locker. She retrieved a zippered bag and used the contents to prick her finger and test her blood glucose.

“Are you all right, sweets?” Jasper asked from behind her.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she lied, grabbing a tube of glucose tablets from the locker. “I just felt a little off, that’s all. I forgot to eat before practice.”

“I know what those things mean,” he said sternly and pointed at the tablets. “Do you need me to remind you to eat?” He shook a finger at her and tapped one foot against the wood floor.

“No, you do not. I’ve been dealing with diabetes since I was six years old. I think I can handle it,” she snapped, then regretted her action. “I’m sorry. I have reminders on my phone, but thank you for the offer. I got busy today and just forgot.”

“But are you okay now? Will you be able to teach at the church tonight? I don’t want you driving if you’re not okay. I can take you there.”

“I’m fine, Jasper. Really, I am,” she insisted.

Her blood sugar might have been a little low, but the strange sensations also came from some other place. Ryan Kidd was handsome, and his kiss had caught her off guard and zinged through all the right places. She had searched online about him after their first meeting, had seen all the photos of him with a bevy of gorgeous women. Amara heard warning bells in her head chiming their message – do not fall for this man.

No matter how good that kiss had been, Ryan Kidd was a player in more than one sense. And she didn’t need to get caught up in his game.